


Our Final Solution

by Jimlockian



Series: Prompts [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Minor Drug Use, References to Canonical Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sherlock had been in on The Fall from the start? What if Reichenbach was merely a way for him to escape, with Jim?  </p><p>A Sheriarty/Jimlock version of what really went on during the rooftop scene of The Fall.. As fluffy as the fake suicide of two geniuses can get!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Final Solution

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a prompt from my awesome bff-beta (who sends me Jimlock when I need it): Sherlock is in on the entire game of the Reichenbach Fall. Indeed, he and Jim cooked this up as an opportunity to escape the public eye together.
> 
> Credit to Doyle, Moffat, & Gatiss, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

Sherlock Holmes lies naked in his bed. Pale elongated figure half visible from above while his lower half is shielded by silk sheets, a gift from his nearby lover to make 221b more tolerable. With one arm thrust under his pillow he lies there and lets the cogs of his mind turn – there is so much to think about...

“You're so _noisy_ when you think..” Grumbles the Irish trill of his bedmate lying on his stomach, breaking the silence of the room. He stretches a little, toothily grinning. “Not much to know, anyway..” Jim Moriarty scoots closer and curls up against him, walking two fingers down Sherlock's bare chest. Jim begins in a singsong voice, “I still hate you - And you still hate me.. It's our new fake philosophy!”

The consulting detective sighs and lifts his elegant limb out from underneath his head, wrapping it around Jim's upper back. “Must I really let John think I am a fraud?” He whispers, tilting his head slightly to the left, holding his frown until Jim drops the grin.  
  
“I won fairly,” Jim murmurs playfully, tilting his chin against Sherlock's chest so that he can nip at the detective's flesh. “There's a first time for everything.” He adds with a chuckle.

Sherlock knows the truth behind that cliché only too well after falling for the mad Irish loon... Jim had started his entire psychotic endeavor in order to get closer to the bright individual he spotted there in the dark world. Instead of making an archenemy or an alley, he found a lover in Sherlock. Though less quick to pick up on it, Sherlock found himself a victim of the same circumstance.

The gravitational pull between them had threatened for so long to collide them, yet when it finally did hit instead of destruction.. adoration had been born. Unfortunately, their timing had been quite inopportune. Jim had already set the starting points of his grand final plan into place. There would be no turning back, yet suddenly Jim Moriarty did not want harm befalling Sherlock.

That was when Jim's mad brilliant mind came up with their final solution – to go through with his dark scheme, or rather, to make it look as if he had gone through with it. At first the mere idea of condoning such a thing was repulsed but as time wore on Sherlock realized it was the answer to their problems – to take the law off Jim's tail, to silence the media whose spotlight is too bright on him, and most importantly they would be together.

Though the plan itself is quite convoluted both believe to have thoroughly hashed it out beyond the point of a problem. Their contingency plans are lengthy should anything actually occur.

The only real issue with their final solution had been who gets to come out smelling like a rose – Moriarty or Holmes? Only one can rise to the top of this strange duo's rivalry. Neither would concede in their argument, so they turned to chance. It is decided with a flip of a 50p coin in Sherlock's pocket (All Jim's pocket change was deemed invalid, Sherlock knows he could be carrying a trick coin) – and Jim had won with tails.  
  
Now, on the night before the end, they lie together in firm commitment. Both are agreed on what they must do for this, their final act.  
  
When the early hours come and sun rays begins to peek through the window Jim rises and begins to dress. Sherlock grumbles and rolls to his side, bleary eyes opening.

“Mustn't let John know.” Jim looks over his shoulder with a wink, “Ciao Sherlock Holmes. See you through the thin veil.”

* * *

 

As intended, Jim and Sherlock meet up on the rooftop of St. Bart's a day later. It is nothing like what people imagine. Papers write a slew of possibilities to explain the two bodies, but none come close to the truth...

Sherlock's supposed enemy is already sitting on the edge of the roof when he appears. The detective walks with a measured step. He nods slightly, everything is set on his end – which by everything, really it all comes down to Molly, his alibi. She will ensure it looks as if he has died.

Nobody can know that he is alive, not even John.

The same goes for Jim.

Jim and Sherlock waste no time discussing prior events because Sherlock is already aware of the plan's intricacies. In fact, many of the last minute adaptations are of his making.

Sherlock does have a moment of privacy, but it is with his lips against Jim's. The two take in one last moment to cherish each other, yet for all their passion, it is a chaste and tender kiss. Jim's lips soft to Sherlock's leading movements. Even knowing things may go wrong, that one or both of them might truly die, their last kiss is an explosion of love instead of lustful heat.

When Sherlock pulls back he uncurls the tight grip his fingers have taken on Jim's suit. He smooths the wrinkles they caused, a solemn stare bearing down on Jim, who finds his lips stretching apart in spite of what they are both about to do. The slick-haired man leans forward as if for another kiss, but he stops short with his lips brushing against Sherlock's as he whispers. “All my life I've felt like I was just staying alive. Just staying...” He presses the sweetest kiss he has ever given Sherlock – pliant lips turning delicate instead of ravenous, lips parted yet without that slippery devilish tongue. It feels like a promise without words. “Then I met you.” His lips quirk into a lopsided grin.

Sherlock's pupils dilate at that soft caress between them, and most of all that brash honesty from the man as complex as a Rubex cube. Long before this moment he had deduced the existence of Jim's fondness, but he is amazed that he missed its depth. Even with their fast approaching date with destiny, a poor metaphor indeed, Jim could still surprise him.

No wonder Sherlock Holmes has fallen so entirely for this man.

His eyes are dazed from the emotion and the detective is having trouble composing a reply that does justice to Jim. Instead, the shorter man waves a hand in an off gesture, playful and a touch elated that his words have gone down well enough to silence his silver tongued lover. “Oh just kill yourself, it's a lot less effort.” Jim winks teasingly.  
  
In fact, that gave him an idea, a romantic idea. He takes Sherlock's hand with one of his own, and with his other hand withdraws a single slender pill from his pocket. The pill is placed in Sherlock's hand, and Jim opens his mouth. “Go on. For me..” Jim trills softly. If anything goes wrong at least he dies by Sherlock's hand. “Please?” He murmurs.

The pill is a paralytic so strong that the body appears dead by the normal measures of vital statistics. Also untraceable in the system, should anyone examine him. Jim had discovered it ages ago as a youth when studying zombification in parts of the Caribbean, although he later realized it was remarkably similar to what Juliet had taken to appear dead.  
  
Sherlock looks between his hand with a drug in the middle of it, and Jim's waiting open mouth. After a moment he picks it up between thumb and forefinger, lifting it and placing it on Jim's mouth. All the while their unblinking gazes remain locked together.  
  
They kiss until it begins to affect Jim, and before he can fall to the ground Sherlock catches him. He eases the limping body down gradually, kneeling beside Jim. “You're not ordinary.” Sherlock whispers to the slowly fading consciousness. Now he understands what the seemingly foolish masses have been saying about soul mates – one spirit in two bodies. “You're me.”  
  
Between his magic little pill, a pack of his own blood (previously held for medical purposes), and Hollywood gunshot makeup, Jim is more than prepared. Sherlock has a tougher go of it with his rooftop fall. It is made worse when he must continue the ruse with John, making it seem like he is forced in a roundabout way. Sherlock knows John will have time to figure it out, as they want him to. Sherlock has faith that John will disbelieve his spoken word.

He does feel guilt at the quiet final second before he drops, for his only friend John most of all, but also for Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and even for a split second Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Sherlock supposes faking one's death still feels so viscerally like actual death that the emotions go on haywire. That is the last thought of the detective before he hits the ground..

* * *

 

“That smells disgusting.” Remarks Sherlock airily from across the chintzy hotel room. A new green dressing gown adorns his figure as he sprawls out in a chair. In the early aftermath of the implementation of their plan the media exploded with the story – suicide of the fake genius. So they never stay in one place too long.

“I don't complain when you medicate yourself.” Jim comments with a raised brow as he taps the ash off his rolled cannabis cigarette. He is out on the balcony, twirling the joint between his fingers, speaking to Sherlock through the open sliding glass door of their room.  
  
Sherlock does not need to glance at the set of hypodermic needles neatly organized on the desk to know what he means. “I have a legitimate medical condition.” He raises his arm, wrapped up in a cast. The arm broke when he hit the ground, as did several ribs, but at least they are healing. Most of the bruising is already long past.  
  
“What about every other time?” Jim shrugs playfully and waves off his lover with a tendril of smoke whirling around his head from the motion. Still, as Sherlock rises from the chair and moves toward him, Jim taps it out and sets it in an ashtray to die out.

Jim reaches for Sherlock who sinks slowly onto the end of Jim's wicker lounger. “You are recovering well.” He murmurs, hugging gently to Sherlock's shoulder on his good side, for the man is still tender with a ways to go in his healing. Traveling does not help their respite but it is a necessary evil.

Sherlock nods, looking out over the little town that now seems like so many others. All the smaller places they have traveled bleed together in his mind into one analogous image. A pretty image with the sunset fading in the distance, the horizon easily visible here.. With their expansive lands and no great tall buildings they make the cramped city of London seem small. Sherlock thinks of London often, and John, their flat, Mrs. Hudson.. so many things build up in his endless mind.

A soft press of Jim's lips against his neck reminds him why he gave all that up, and Sherlock closes his eyes. Even knowing of the complications that had arisen, and the emotion he felt watching John visit his grave, as long as he knew they would come to this moment watching a sunset in harmony, Sherlock knows he would do it all over again exactly the same.

Alright, maybe he would move his arm out of the way next time.


End file.
